


Pay Grade

by Deastar



Series: White Collar - Classic Slash Clichés [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Oh, don't mind me," Neal says.  "I'm just basking in the irony over here."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay Grade

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of a set of five stories based on classic slash clichés – in this case, "stuck together." This fic was written before episode 1x7 "Free Fall" aired. The fantastic [](http://laulan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://laulan.livejournal.com/)**laulan** gave me the idea for this, and then was kind enough to beta it for me.
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Russian translation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/627316) by Elga!

When Elizabeth opens the door and sees the two of them on the porch, she laughs and laughs and laughs.

"It's not that funny," Peter mutters – Neal silently disagrees. It is _definitely_ that funny.

"Oh, it's hilarious," Elizabeth says, wiping her eyes. Chuckling, she reaches inside the door and pulls out a duffel bag, dropping it at Peter's feet.

"What's this?"

"This is your emergency overnight bag," she tells him, smiling.

"El—!" Peter protests.

"No," she tells him firmly but sweetly. "You are not sleeping in bed with me tonight, Peter, and the pair of you wouldn't fit on the couch."

"Bed—" Peter says, in a kind of pathetic tone of voice, and Neal feels a little bad for him – it _has_ been a very long and tiring day.

"No," Elizabeth repeats, shaking her head fondly. "That way lie flashbacks to the Ill-Fated Bondage Experiment of '05, and nobody wants that. You two have fun now," she adds, with a broad wink, before shutting the door in Peter's face.

Peter stares dumbly at the front door, then down at the suitcase, then finally at the pair of specially-designed, custom-made titanium/steel blend Israeli Military Police handcuffs (the key to which is somewhere at the bottom of the Hudson River) linking his right wrist to Neal's left.

Then he looks up at Neal.

"You've been suspiciously quiet for the last five minutes," he observes, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, don't mind me," Neal says. "I'm just basking in the irony over here."

Peter gives him a look that says "You bastard" more clearly than words ever could.

"You should view this as a unique opportunity," Neal says, enjoying the sight of Peter's face getting redder and redder. "You can walk a mile in my shoes, understand how the other half lives. This is an amazing learning experience, if you just think positively, Peter."

"When the replacement key arrives tomorrow, I'm throwing you back in jail," Peter vows, "on the charge of being deliberately obnoxious and getting on my last nerve."

Neal's brow furrows. "Can you do that?"

Peter meets Neal's eyes with the full force of almost 24 hours of stupid-criminal-related frustration, topped off with an accidental handcuffing and the forty-five minutes of ribbing by his fellow FBI agents that ensued. "_Try me_," he says.

Neal looks at him warily. "You do remember the part where this isn't actually my fault, right?"

Peter sighs, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Grudgingly, he admits, "I do remember that. Let's just find some place to sleep, okay?" he suggests.

"Why don't we both just go to June's?"

Peter scowls and starts walking over to the car, tugging Neal behind him. "I am not walking into the house of an elderly woman – a pillar of society, no less – looking like a fetish scene gone wrong."

Privately, Neal thinks that if this is Peter's image of a fetish scene gone wrong, Neal needs to get him some better porn. Out loud, he says, "So we'll sneak in after dark, no problem."

"I am not _sneaking_ into an elderly woman's house under the cover of darkness like some kind of—"

"Criminal?" Neal winks. "Why not? I do it all the time."

"Exactly," Peter says grimly. "We are finding a hotel. A normal one. A hotel in my pay grade, okay?"

Neal has a bad, bad feeling about this plan. "We're going to the Best Western or something, aren't we?" he asks glumly.

"Yes," Peter says, determined, "that's exactly what we're going to do. Climb in," he adds, gesturing to the driver's side door of the car.

Unfortunately, "climbing in" is more than just a turn of phrase, in this case. Neal sighs as he opens the door. He slides into the driver's seat of Peter's car, then swings his legs, one at a time, into the passenger's side, and pushes up with his arms to hoist himself into the seat. In the meantime, Peter is sticking his right hand into the car and sort of waving it around; he's trying to match Neal's movements, but mostly he just succeeds in messing with Neal's balance enough to make him bruise his ass on the gearshift.

Finally, the two of them are ensconced in the car, and Neal resigns himself to another awkward episode of holding his arm in the air so that Peter can drive with both hands.

"We are going to a Best Western, or a Red Roof Inn or something," Peter repeats, with resolve, "and I am going to get a good night's sleep, and in the morning, the replacement key will have arrived, and I will take a long, _solitary_ shower, and start forgetting that this whole mess ever happened."

Neal's bad feeling is only getting stronger, but Peter sounds so hopeful that Neal exercises some self-control and says only, "There's a Best Western down past the grocery store, across from that Thai place you like."

"Then that's where we'll go," Peter says, looking like visions of pillowcases are already dancing in his head.

~*~

"Oh my god!" the clerk shouts. "What the hell is wrong with you? I'm calling the police!"

"I _am_ the police," Peter shouts back, and her eyes widen even further.

"Then that's even more inappropriate!" she exclaims, pointing at the pair of handcuffs linking Neal and Peter together. "You can't hold someone against their will, this is—"

Peter looks ready to scream. "What makes you think it's me holding _him_ against his will, huh? It could be _him_ holding _me_, did you think of that, lady?"

"Or," Neal adds helpfully, "it could be completely consensual. Would you describe your headboards here as 'sturdy,' ma'am?"

The clerk pulls some kind of alarm, and an obnoxious noise starts blaring—Peter turns to Neal and growls, "Thanks for the _help_, Neal."

"It's not my fault your communications skills are so poor," Neal protests. "This whole situation makes perfect sense if you just explain it right."

When Peter just looks at him helplessly, Neal sighs and says, "Also, we should probably leave before security gets here. Trust me. I've a developed an instinct for these kinds of moments."

~*~

"So much for the Best Western," Neal says in the car, without an ounce of regret.

"We'll find someplace else," Peter replies, sounding determined. "Someplace even cheaper. One of those by-the-hour places, sketchy places – those clerks have seen it all. You'll see."

They pull up in front of a motel that looks like it was created solely to provide a visual definition of the word "seedy."

"Wow," Neal mutters, "all this place is missing is a pink neon sign flashing 'Girls, Girls, Girls!'"

"It's perfect," Peter declares.

Inside, at the front desk, the clerk oozes boredom until Peter reaches for his wallet with his right hand, making the chain connecting the handcuffs clink. When the clerk gets a good look at the handcuffs, as Peter hands over his credit card, he chuckles loudly.

"Oho!" he exclaims. "Man, I knew you Wall Street guys were getting some outrageous bonuses, but this is something else." He nods approvingly, swiping Peter's card and punching some buttons as he continues. "Lucky you, though, if that's your thing – what, your boss loaned you his boy toy for the night? I just say that, no offense, no offense, man, just – he looks above your pay grade, is all – but hey, you live like a king for a night, not bad, not bad. Get your money's worth, is what I say," the guy rambles on. He's staring at Neal's mouth in a skeevy, hungry way, and Neal is crossing the border from mostly amused to fairly creeped-out when suddenly Peter grabs his credit card out of the clerk's hand and strides right out of the lobby, Neal jogging a little to catch up.

Peter marches right out to the car so fast that he forgets that Neal has to get in first, and almost ends up with Neal's elbow in his eye. After they get untangled and situated, Peter doesn't start the car – just sits and glares at the motel through the windshield.

"I'm mad," he says finally, sounding a little surprised. "I'm really mad at him for saying those things about you."

"I know," Neal responds. He nudges Peter with his elbow. "It's kind of sweet."

"I should go back in and punch him in the face," Peter decides, and Neal sighs.

"Please don't do that. I really don't want to have to climb over the gear shift again."

Peter makes a sort of harrumphing noise, and glares a little harder at the motel before turning the key in the ignition and backing out. Neal can practically see him seething – after the third left turn that Peter takes so sharply that it slams Neal into the car door, he decides some distraction is in order.

"Personally, I think you should be more offended on your own behalf," Neal suggests.

Peter cocks his head, and his brows draw closer. "Because he thought I would patronize a prostitute?"

"Because he said I was out of your pay grade," Neal corrects, with a self-deprecating smile, ready to hear a joke at his own expense, but Peter just shrugs.

"That part didn't bother me," he says.

"Why not?"

"You _are_ out of my pay grade," Peter says, shrugging again.

When Neal turns to him with an incredulous stare, Peter flushes and awkwardly adds, "I'm not saying that you're… a _thing_ to be paid for – it's a figure of speech. I'm just saying that if you _were…_ a car, or a house – you'd be a very fast car, or a very fancy house, which I couldn't afford. None of which is to imply that you are, you know, what that guy was implying. You aren't. I would never say that. Even though… it sounds like I just did," Peter tries to explain. He looks over at Neal – who is still processing that kind of amazing speech – and mutters, "So maybe I should have quit while I was ahead."

Neal grins. "A fast car?"

"Above my pay grade," Peter repeats ruefully, and he smiles at Neal like he doesn't see anything wrong with it, but it bothers Neal.

"I'm really not," he says.

"You really are," Peter replies comfortably. He sounds very matter-of-fact about it, and Neal leans his head back on the headrest and watches Peter, thinking hard.

"Okay," he says suddenly. "We tried it your way twice. Now we're going to try it my way. Turn right here."

Peter rolls his eyes, but he follows Neal's directions into the city obediently, until Neal asks him to stop in front of an imposing building.

Peter looks up at it, then does an entertaining double-take.

"Neal!" he hisses, aggrieved, "This is the Palace Hotel!"

"You said you'd try it my way," Neal reminds him.

The two of them negotiate their way out of the car again – Neal trying not to pull a muscle, Peter trying to pretend he's anywhere but here.

Inside the building, Neal walks confidently up to the front desk and says, "I'd like a suite for tonight, possibly for tomorrow night as well."

"Of course, sir," the clerk murmurs. Peter draws in a breath, probably to squawk about the price – Neal calmly steps on his foot very hard.

Unconcerned, he hands the clerk a platinum card with his left hand, dragging Peter's right hand up onto the counter with him and making the cuffs clink against the marble surface. He can see Peter wince in anticipation, can hear him suck in a breath and shift his weight.

The clerk doesn't blink.

"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Schicchi. If there are any further services we may provide, please do not hesitate to ask."

"Thanks, will do," Neal replies, smiling broadly.

Peter, by some miracle, manages to keep his mouth shut until they're alone in the elevator.

"What the hell was that?"

Neal sighs, and says patiently, "Peter, I've explained this to you before. Enough money buys you the right to have anything you _act_ like you deserve. I _act_ like I deserve to be treated like a prince even though I'm handcuffed to a surly, poorly dressed FBI agent, and since I have the money to back it up, that's how the clerk treated me."

Peter grimaces. "You're saying this is probably the only hotel in the city that would give us a room, handcuffed together like this, without making any nasty comments."

"Peter," Neal says blandly, "I would never say 'I told you so.' That would be irritating."

"Uh-huh," Peter replies dryly, but he can't stop a smile from tugging at his lips.

As the elevator slows, Peter raises an eyebrow and adds, "Schicchi? Really?"

"I've always found that, when it comes to inventing fake names, nothing beats a broad classical education and a finely honed sense of irony." When Peter snorts, Neal grins. "What? You don't think I look Italian?"

Peter rolls his eyes as the elevator dings, then drags Neal out into the hallway.

"So where is this room that Mr. Schicchi has so kindly booked for us?" Peter asks, peering dubiously at the doors dotted through the hallway. Neal strides confidently down to the door at the far end and opens it with a flourish.

"Our humble abode."

Peter steps through the door and gapes – Neal tries to see the room the way Peter is seeing it. By Peter's standards, the suite probably seems incredibly huge – you could comfortably hold an intimate wedding ceremony in just this front room, and from what Neal can see of the bedroom, it's just as grand. The carpet is so plush that Neal can feel his feet sinking into it even through his shoes, and the view of the Manhattan skyline at night through the long, uninterrupted row of windows looks like a tourist postcard in high-definition. The light thrown by the overhead chandelier glances off of the polished glass tabletops and lands on the champagne silk upholstery.

Neal stuffs his right hand in his pocket and turns to smile at Peter, satisfied.

Peter says, "I can't stay here."

The smile drops off Neal's face, and he throws his right hand up, frustrated. "What's wrong with here? It's perfect!"

"That's the problem!" Peter shouts back – he throws up his hands, too, but _he_ forgets about the handcuffs and yanks hard on Neal's wrist, pulling Neal way off balance and sending both of them suddenly toppling over onto the floor.

"What is your problem with this suite?" Neal asks exasperatedly, levering himself up to lean against the front of the champagne-colored sofa.

"It's too nice!" Peter insists, joining him in front of the couch. "It's—look, Neal, this is… I'm a federal agent. I stay at places like the Best Western—"

"—which we got thrown out of," Neal notes.

"I noticed that, thanks."

Neal stares intently at Peter, who looks uncomfortable and says, more quietly, "There's a way thing are supposed to go. There are people who are supposed to stay in places like this. But I'm not one of them, okay? I know _you_ don't believe that," he adds, rolling his eyes, but Neal interrupts him by tugging on the chain connecting their cuffs.

Leaning back against the sofa, enjoying the warmth of Peter's arm against his, Neal says, "I've noticed this thing about you."

"Noticed what?"

"I noticed it back on that first day when you came to get me at June's. You were so mad that I was living in this fancy house, wearing these expensive suits and sipping cappuccino, but when I asked you why _you_ couldn't have those things, you told me that you weren't 'supposed to,' that the work you do equals certain things, and that wasn't one of them."

Tucking his feet under him, Neal turns to meet Peter's eyes.

"You think you're not allowed to have certain things, nice things. Maybe you even think you don't deserve them. But you're wrong. You can stay in a place like this," Neal says, gesturing at the room, the skyline, the huge ornate couch. "You can have fancy, high-class things. You can have—"

_Me_, Neal almost says, but he's still not sure – not quite. More carefully, he says, "You can have things that are above your pay grade. If you want them."

Peter, demonstrating unusual emotional acuity, says with a skeptical eyebrow, "You mean you."

"Well." Neal says, a little disconcerted. "Yes."

"You think pretty highly of yourself," Peter says, giving nothing away.

"You're the one who called me a fast car," Neal reminds him.

"You _really_ liked that, didn't you?" Peter asks, cracking a smile, and Neal smiles back, huffing a breath of laughter. "I really did," he admits. They're grinning at each other from two inches away, and as Peter's grin fades, something soft and searching comes into his eyes. This close together, it would almost be easier to kiss than not, and Neal waits, breathing shallowly—but Peter stays still.

"Are you going to kiss me or not?" Neal finally asks.

Peter looks startled. "I—"

"You can have the things you want," Neal insists, and Peter laughs.

"I'm starting to see that," he replies, sounding amused, but he still kisses Neal like he's not sure he's allowed – slow, tentative and chaste, with his hands at his sides like a gentleman.

Neal meets Peter's lips with soft encouragement, and he's glad to have this, very glad, but—

"I mean it," he murmurs in Peter's ear. "Don't be afraid to mess me up." He wraps his free hand around the back of Peter's neck and pulls him into a wet, open-mouthed kiss, hooking a finger in the cuff around Peter's wrist and using it to drag Peter's hand over onto his thigh, where it rests, warm and broad, even after Neal breaks away to catch his breath.

Peter is breathing hard, too, and he laughs a little as he says, "I'm not sure this is exactly what Elizabeth meant when she said 'Have fun, boys.'"

Neal blinks. "_I _am," he replies. How Peter has stayed married to a woman like Elizabeth – for ten years, no less – despite obviously not having the slightest idea what she's actually thinking continually intrigues and amazes Neal.

"Well, I'm the husband," Peter says firmly, "so I'm the one who has to be sure."

"Fair enough," Neal allows – he'd never have dared even this much if he didn't think he had Elizabeth's blessing, and Peter has far more to lose.

"Tomorrow," Peter says firmly, "after the keys come, I'll take you home and we'll all talk about this like civilized adults."

Neal raises an eyebrow – he knows how much Peter enjoys potentially awkward social situations, especially talking about feelings. "Are you sure you'll survive it?"

Peter tilts his head in rueful acknowledgement of Neal's point, but his face is serious when he says, "I can have nice things – okay. That's one way to think about it. But for me—" He shrugs. "—I work for the things I have. A thing that I'm not willing to work for, even if it's hard or complicated – that's not a thing worth having." He waves his free hand at the room full of expensive things, and explains, "All this – I could work my ass off for years, and still never earn enough to afford this. I don't – I don't want to have things I didn't earn."

"Nine years, Peter," Neal says with a sideways smile, thinking of four years of the chase and four years of birthday cards and one year of fragile but freely-given trust. "Trust me, you earned this."

Unlike Peter, Neal has never spent much time worrying about whether or not he deserves the things he has. As he cajoles Peter into one more slow, luxurious kiss, and as Peter's hand carefully strokes Neal's hair back from his face, trembling, Neal wonders if that might not be about to change, at least a little. Breathing into Peter's mouth, laughing when Peter forgets the handcuffs again and sends them both crashing into the coffee table, he thinks that's probably a change he's willing to make.


End file.
